Vivienne's POV
I throw the burned chicken in the trash with more force than necessary.
Four hours. Four whole hours I've been waiting, and Damien still isn't home. The fancy dinner I made is ruined. The candles have melted into ugly puddles. My feet hurt from the expensive heels I wore just for him.
I'm such an idiot.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Another text from his assistant Rebecca: "Mr. Sterling says he'll be very late. Don't wait up."
Don't wait up. Like I'm some dog that needs permission to sleep.
I laugh, but it comes out sounding like a sob. Today is our seventh wedding anniversary. Seven years married to the richest, most handsome man in the city. Seven years of being completely invisible.
I grab my phone and type back: "Tell Mr. Sterling his wife says congratulations on forgetting another anniversary."
I delete it before sending. What's the point? Rebecca probably feels sorrier for me than my own husband does.
The penthouse is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat. This place is huge—five bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, marble everything. It's like living in a museum. Beautiful and cold and dead.
Just like my marriage.
I pick up the small wrapped gift sitting next to his plate. Inside is a rare book—a first edition of his favorite novel. He mentioned wanting it three years ago during one of the few real conversations we've ever had. I've been searching for it ever since, finally finding it last month at an auction.
He won't care. He never does.
I should be used to this by now. The forgotten birthdays. The missed dinners. The way he walks past me in the hallway like I'm furniture. But somehow, it still hurts. Every single time, it hurts.
Seven years ago, everything changed at my little sister Celeste's college graduation party. I don't usually drink, but that night I was sad. Celeste was dating Damien Sterling back then—this powerful, gorgeous man who was already a millionaire at twenty-seven. I thought they were perfect together.
But they'd broken up a few weeks before the party. I didn't know why.
That night, drunk and emotional, I somehow ended up talking to Damien for hours. We sat in the garden while the party raged inside. He told me about losing his parents when he was sixteen. I told him about raising Celeste after our parents died. We talked about loneliness and responsibility and fear.
It was the most real conversation I'd ever had.
I don't remember much after that. Too much wine. But three days later, I woke up terrified because I thought something had happened between us. And I thought I might be pregnant.
Celeste found me crying in the bathroom. She looked at me with such pity. "You slept with my ex-boyfriend?" she'd whispered. "Vivienne, you could be pregnant with Damien Sterling's baby. What are you going to do?"
I panicked. I went to Damien and told him everything—that I might be pregnant, that I was so sorry, that I didn't know what to do.
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he said, "We'll get married."
Just like that. No emotion. No discussion. Like he was signing a business contract.
We got married three weeks later at City Hall. No white dress. No flowers. No love.
I found out two days after the wedding that I wasn't actually pregnant. It had been a false alarm—my period came late because of stress. I told Damien immediately, expecting him to be relieved.
He just nodded and said, "We're already married. It doesn't matter now."
That was seven years ago. We've barely spoken since.
I hear the penthouse door open. My heart jumps even though I don't want it to. Even after all this time, some stupid part of me still hopes.
Damien walks into the dining room. He's so handsome it physically hurts to look at him—tall, dark hair, sharp jaw, ice-blue eyes that never seem to see me. His expensive suit is wrinkled. He looks exhausted.
He stops when he sees the ruined dinner. The melted candles. Me standing there in my nice dress with mascara probably running down my face.
"You're still up," he says. His voice is flat, like he's commenting on the weather.
"It's our anniversary," I say quietly.
Something flickers across his face. Pain, maybe. Or guilt. But it's gone so fast I probably imagined it.
"I forgot." He loosens his tie. "I'm sorry."
Two words. That's all I get. Two words for seven years of loyalty and loneliness and love he doesn't even want.
"I made dinner," I say, hating how small my voice sounds.
"I ate at the office."
Of course he did.
He walks past me toward his study. Not toward our bedroom—we haven't shared a bedroom in six years. He has his space, I have mine. Like roommates. Like strangers.
"Damien," I call out before I can stop myself.
He pauses but doesn't turn around.
"Do you..." I swallow hard. "Do you ever think about that night? The night we got married?"
Now he turns. Those cold blue eyes finally look at me—really look at me—and I see something in them I don't understand. Something intense and painful and angry.
"Every day," he says, his voice rough. "I think about it every single day."
Then he walks into his study and closes the door.
I stand there, frozen. What does that mean? Does he regret marrying me? Does he wish he'd never met me? Does he hate me for trapping him?
My phone buzzes. I look down, expecting another text from Rebecca.
But it's not Rebecca.
It's Celeste.
My baby sister. The one I raised after our parents died. The one I protected my whole life. The one I thought I'd saved from scandal by marrying Damien.
The message says: "Big news, sis! I'm coming home! Just landed in the city. Can't wait to see you... and Damien. It's been too long. 😘"
My blood turns to ice.
Celeste is back. After four years in Paris, she's finally coming home.
And suddenly, I understand everything.
The distance. The coldness. The way Damien looks through me like I'm not there.
He's been waiting. All this time, he's been waiting for her to come back.
I sink into a chair, my legs giving out. Seven years I've loved a man who's in love with my sister. Seven years I've been nothing but a placeholder until the woman he really wants returns.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Celeste: "Tell Damien I'll stop by tomorrow. We have SO much to catch up on!"
The little heart emoji at the end feels like a knife in my chest.
I look at the closed door to Damien's study. Behind that door is the man I've loved since the night we talked in the garden. The man who married me out of obligation. The man who thinks about "that night" every single day—probably wishing it never happened.
A tear rolls down my cheek, but I wipe it away quickly.
Seven years is a long time to be invisible. A long time to hope for something that will never come. A long time to love someone who doesn't love you back.
Maybe it's time to stop waiting.
Maybe it's time to disappear for real.
But first, I need to know the truth. I need to see Damien's face when Celeste walks back into his life. I need to watch him choose her over me, just like everyone always has.
Then I'll know for sure.
Then I'll finally be able to let go.
I stand up, turn off all the lights, and walk to my empty bedroom. Tomorrow, everything changes. Tomorrow, my sister comes home.
Tomorrow, I find out if my husband ever loved me at all.